“Good deal, huh?” said the chief. “The little kids gotta pay the big kids so’s they git a spot near the bridge.
It’s a protection racket.”
Brian shook his head as they moved with the crowd across the bridge. The concrete pavement ended at the town side of the bridge, giving way to a hard-packed dirt street. As they stepped off onto the dirt, they were assaulted by a wave of Filipino hustlers, all trying to get them to go to this bar or that mamasan, to hire a jeepney for the night, or to meet virginal relatives. The noise was incredible. Brian took a moment to survey the jeepneys.
There were dozens of the brightly painted vehicles waiting at the bridge, each completely covered in flashing lights like mobile Christmas trees and playing at least one very loud radio station over external speakers. The jeepneys were further decorated hi chromium medallions, hubcaps, flags, banners, religious icons, and festooned with young boys and monkeys hanging from the sides or the roof or even from handles on the hood. Every driver kept one hand pounding on the horn to attract the attention of potential riders. When they had a full boat of sailors, they would roar off into the main street in a cloud of exhaust and cheering Filipinos.
“We’re walking’,” shouted the boatswain over the noise, pushing his way through the crowd, with Brian in close-column formation to take advantage of the chief’s broad wake. Several of the nearby Filipino promoters greeted the chief with shouts of
“Hey, Chief!” or
“Over here, Bosun Mate!” A couple of them eyed Brian and then shouted out, “Who’sa officer you got there, Bosun Mate? He cherry? First time Olongapo, okay? You come with me for good time, Charlie!”
“These guys know who you are?” shouted Brian over the din.
“Nan. They jist know I’m a CPO and a bosun mate.”
“How the hell they know that? How the hell they know I’m an officer?”
“They jist do. These little fuckers know everything.
Besides, you look like an officer.”
Brian recalled the chief’s instructions on the way out to the main gate about officer bars and white-hat bars.
“The Flips,” the chief had said, “they know the difference.
They can spot an officer a mile away, jist like they can tell when a white hat walks inna officer bar.”
“There’s separate bars for officers and enlisted?”
“Hell yes. Everythin’s organized out there. Officers kin go to officer bars or enlisted bars, but white hats’ll git throwed out, they go inna officer bar. Chiefs, they go to either one, seein’s they’re khaki but usta be white hats.
Girl works inna officer bar, she’ll turn her nose up at any girl works a white-hat bar. And the mamasan, that’s the woman who runs the bar, she won’t let no white-hat bar girl in her officer bar.”
“Sounds complicated. How do I know which bar is which?”
“They’ll let ya know, and ‘sides, once you been out there a coupla times, you kin tell. Officer bars are quieter, usually, unless there’s a carrier in port. Them fuckin’ aviators are all crazy bastards. The officer bar girls got better English and are better-lookin’. And cost more, of course.”
“Of course. I suppose they figure the officers have more money.”
The chief had laughed. “Naw, they know the officers got more money, but they also know it’s the white hats that’ll spend it. And what them broads’re interested in is the spendin’ bit. Best I can tell, the officer-bar deal is jist a way of makin’ the officers feel easier ‘bout getting’ fucked up without the troops seem’ ‘em.”
“In other words, same fleece job, only a little more genteel.”
“Yeah, sorta. But it all beats a midwatch.”
After clearing the bridge, the chief pointed toward the left side of the main street, which stretched into the night for about a half mile in front of them. The street was lined on either side with bars, restaurants, hotels, souvenir stores, dance halls, and more bars. The main drag, unpaved, hardpan dirt, was filled with sailors, bar girls, young Filipino men, jeepneys, pushcarts, and the occasional dazed water buffalo. The sidewalks were raised wooden plank walks, with each establishment having a different height of plank walk in front of it.
Street kids huddled in small knots at each step up or down in the plank walk, waiting for someone to trip so they could “help” him back up while they picked his pockets. On every corner, there were noisy vendors stoking charcoal braziers mounted on bicycle carts, selling food, Olongapo souvenirs, cold drinks, ice cream, smuggled cigarettes, Tshirts, cheap jewelry, and carved monkeypod plates, mugs, bowls, and animals. The smoking braziers offered aromatic bamboo skewers of meat, which the sailors universally called monkey meat.
Brian found it all rather overwhelming as he followed the boatswain, trying to keep up in the mixed throng of sailors and Filipinos moving down the boardwalks.
Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, trying to make themselves heard over the din of jeepney horns, the heavily amplified rock and roll blaring out of the bars, and the incessant din of the Filipino radio stations coming from seemingly everywhere. As they threaded their way through the crowds, Brian twice felt tiny hands slide furtively across his back pockets or along his left wrist as children sized him up as a potential mark for his wallet or his watch. He suddenly found himself face-to-face with a stunningly beautiful Filipina girl who pressed against him in a cloud of sweet perfume and whispered something in his ear before the chief yanked her rougjhly out of the way and signaled Brian to follow, growling, “Fuckin’ Benny boy.”
“What’s a Benny boy?” Brian asked, still shouting to make himself heard.
“Guy in drag hustlin’ blow jobs.”
Brian looked back over his shoulder in astonishment.
“That was a guy?”
“They’re pretty fuckin’ good, I gotta admit. There’s a coupla bars here specialize in Benny boys. The base cops stake ‘em out sometimes, lookin’ for Navy queers.”
Brian caught up as the crowd thinned out enough for them to walk almost side by side. “So where we bound, Bosun Mate?”
“We’re going’ to Josie’s place fer starters. It’s a nice joint, and the girls are clean if you’re inna mind to get laid. We’ll have a coupla beers there and then maybe go over to the crocodile bar. After that, we’ll see what’s shakin’.”
“You’re staying over tonight?”
“Yes, sir. Always do. I get me a room for the whole port visit. Safer that way. Here’s Josie’s.”
Josie’s place turned out to be a dimly lighted single large room that combined the functions of dance hall and bar. Most of the floor was packed with small tables, almost all of which were filled with noisy Americans and Filipina girls of varying sizes, ages, and descriptions. A low ceiling was draped with rattan mats and some vaguely nautical decorations; several fans overhead made a meager attempt to stir the cloud of cigarette smoke in the room. The floor was constructed of wooden planks covered liberally with sawdust. On the right side of the room, another collection of Asian Elvises manfully attacked an American rock-and-roll song at full volume on a raised stage. A stand-up bar ran the whole length of the back side of the dance floor, from which a continuous stream of harried waitresses ferried trays of beer to the thirsty sailors. There were a half dozen couples dancing or otherwise making intimate contact on the open space in front of the band, the Americans towering over their tiny “dates.” The chief spied an empty table on the left side of the room, away from the band, and pushed his way through the closely packed tables. Brian followed obediently in his wake and sat down on a spindly wooden chair. A waitress appeared at once, followed by two heavily painted, miniskirted Olongapo debutantes.
“San Magoo. Pitcher,” the chief rumbled. He waved off the debutantes, whose hopeful expressions quickly changed to vocal contempt and muttenngs about Benny boys. The chief ignored them and a frosty pitcher appeared a minute later, along with two questionably clean glasses.
Brian reached for some
money, but the chief shook his head and poured.
“They run a tab; they figger you have enough of this stuff, you won’t be countin’ so good.”
Brian grinned and tried the San Miguel beer, for which Subic was famous.
It wasn’t bad at all, but he was wary after his encounter with Subic Specials.
“This is just beer, right? Not seven kinds of beer with some vodka thrown in for emphasis?” He almost had to shout over the noise from the band.
The chief grinned. “You musta hit some Subic Specials.”
“Naw, it was just some fruit juice lightly flavored with rum. I think it was bad juice.”
The chief nodded sagely. “Yeah, juice’U do that. This here San Magoo, you get a green one, you’ll have the runnin’ shits for a week or so.”
“How can you tell if it’s green?”
“You can’t, ‘cept’n greenies always come in bottles.
That’s why you get pitchers.”
“That sounds like a story cooked up by the San Miguel people to sell more beer.”
The chief nodded. “More beer is better than less beer, I always say.”
They nursed their pitcher of beer for a while and watched the action.
Almost every table had its allotment of hostesses who sat variously on the laps of their companions or very close alongside. There seemed to be quite a lot of motion below the tablecloths, accompanied by a lot of squealing and giggling. The men drank beer for the most part, while the hostesses sipped on glasses of tea disguised as whiskey and negotiated sexual favors. The chief explained that these ranged from what could be achieved at the table all the way to buying the girl out of the bar for the night.
“Who do they buy them from?” Brian asked.
“From the mamasan who runs the place. In this place, it’sjosie.”
“Mamasan. That sounds more like Japanese than Fili pino slang.”
“Same difference—it’s all WESTPAC Navy talk. I ain’t never seen a guy runnin’ a bar out here in WESTPAC, whether it’s Korea, Taiwan, Japan, or here in Hukapino land. Always a mamasan.”
“They must be tough old women.”
“Not always old. Like Josie here. She’s a looker.
Wanna meet her?”
Brian did not know what to say. He was curious but totally unsure of how one was supposed to act around the Asian version of a madam. The chief grinned at him, then whispered in the ear of a passing waitress. A few minutes later, the chief nudged Brian; he turned and saw a statuesque Asian woman gliding across the room toward their table. She was taller than the other women in the bar and was dressed in a clinging low-cut floor length gold lame gown that revealed the full figure of a mature woman. Her face was round and definitely Asiatic, with arched black eyebrows, dark eyes, and a full mouth. She exuded a sense of class and poise that set her entirely apart from the brown-faced Filipina girls working the tables. The busy waitresses and Olongapo debutantes smiled nervously and made small bows as she walked past. She ignored them and the hot stares of the sailors as the dress parted along the side, revealing a flash of thigh. Brian wondered how old she was, then felt his cheeks redden as he realized that she was looking directly at him, watching him stare at her.
She reached the table before Brian had figured out what to say or do. He wanted to look away but could not, there was so much of her to look at.
The chief was making introductions as if he had known Josie for a long time.
“Josie, this is Mr. Holcomb, the new Weapons officer inna Hood. Boss, this here is Josie.”
Brian started to stand up, but she put her hand on his shoulder, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Holcomb. Welcome to my place.”
Brian found himself looking up and nodding at her, tongue-tied. He suddenly felt like a bumbling idiot. Pleased, she had said, not preased.
He found himself dying to know what she was, whether Chinese, Japanese, or whatever other exotic mixture. He detected a faint scent of expensive perfume that was a far cry from the cheap colognes of the bar girls.
Josie was speaking to him again.
“So what do you think of Olongapo? This is your first time here, yes?”
“It’s, uh, it’s quite something,” Brian replied. “And it’s my first time here. First time in WESTPAC, for that matter.” Her breasts were large and pointed right in his face. She had not removed her hand from his shoulder, and he thought for an instant that her fingers were rubbing the back of his shoulder as she talked to him.
“Is there anything you need? Anything we can get you?”
Before he could stop himself, Brian asked her if she wanted to dance.
The chief’s mouth began to work as he tried to keep from laughing. Josie smiled down at Brian and shook her head gently.
“No, no, Mr. Holcomb. That is not done. I’m the owner, you see. But it is sweet of you to ask. Please enjoy yourself in my place. I will stop by again later.
Louie Jesus, good to see you again.”
“You bet, Josie.”
Brian watched in awe as Josie moved away toward the back of the bar; he thought there were a hell of a lot of things in motion on just one woman. He then stole a quick look over at the chief.
“I suppose I just fucked up,” he said in a low voice, looking down now at the table and studying his glass of beer. The glasses on the table started shifting, and when he looked sideways at the chief, he found him shaking with silent laughter.
“Well, boss, that is a hell of a lot of woman right there.
At least you didn’t come out and ask if you could go down on her right here and now, which’s what usually happens first time a horny sailor gets a look at Josie in her running gear. You ast me, I think she kinda liked you.”
Brian shook his head. “That was indeed a lot of woman. Do all the mamasans look like that?”
“Hell no. Most of ‘em are short, fat, ugly, and meaner’n a sumo wrestler what ain’t been fed since the mid watch. Naw, Josie’s kinda special.”
“What is she?”
“Whadaya mean, what?”
“I mean is she Japanese, Chinese? She’s definitely notfilipino.”
The chief snorted. “No ‘fense, Mr. Holcomb, but you white guys are alla time too hung up on breeds. What she is is a good-lookin’ woman who’s stacked to the gills and got class besides. I mean, you did notice, am I right?
Couldn’t talk ‘cause your tongue was too hard, right?
Shee-it, finish up that beer and let’s go over to the crocodile bar.”
They left Josie’s as Brian gave one last hopeful look over his shoulder as they pushed through the entrance, but Josie was nowhere to be seen.
They joined the throngs on the boardwalk, heading deeper into the town.
After about a hundred yards of pushing through the noise and the crowds, the chief turned to cross the street.
Ahead was a much larger establishment than Josie’s. To Brian’s astonishment, there seemed to be more noise coming from inside than from out on the street.
“This here’s the crocodile bar,” shouted the chief.
“This here’s special, even for Subic. You stay close to me so’s we can git up front.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. Stick close.”
Brian followed the chief into a mob scene inside. This bar was jammed with Americans, all of whom were drinking beer, singing along with yet another Elvis group jamming somewhere over in a smoky corner, or chasing the bar girls. There was no room for tables, and the bar girls were doing the best they could in the press of milling bodies. The room was hot and the atmosphere of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, human sweat, beer, and something Brian could not identify was nearly overwhelming.
There was an anxious crowd packed at the front door, trying to get in, but the chief just started forward through the door and onto the dance floor. Some individuals complained as he started through, but then they subsided and gave way to the laws of gross tonnage when
they realized they were bitching at a belt buckle.
Brian stayed tucked in close astern, hoping he was invisible.
The real crowd, the source of most of the noise, and the chief’s objective, was in the center of the room, where there was a hollow square, twenty feet on a side, formed by a chest-high chain-link fence.
Inside the fence was a pool of noxious-looking water, and in the pool were about a dozen crocodiles, ranging in size from three feet to one monster that appeared to Brian to be as long as the pool. Sailors crowded in on all four sides of the fence, yelling encouragement to two of their buddies who stood on a small platform at one end of the square.
Each of the men had a canvas bag clutched in his left hand. Whatever was in the bag was alive. Brian watched in fascination as one man reached into the bag and pulled out a baby chicken. The chick was dyed bright pink, as if painted up for Easter. At the sight of the chick, every one of the crocodiles turned its horrendous snout in the direction of the man, who held the chick up and shook it at the crocs.
An answering chorus of hisses and grunts rose from the pool and a long cheer of encouragement issued from the onlookers. Then the man lofted the chick into the center of the pool and the crocs jumped, slashed, roared, and splashed while the cheering section roared their own approval at the bloody scrimmage. When the chick had disappeared, the second man stepped up to the fence and brandished a new chick, this one bright blue, and the crocs and the crowd got set again.
“I can’t fucking believe this!” Brian shouted over the noise.
“Yeah, well, you had to see it,” said the chief. “You kin buy a baga chicks for five hunnert pesos, you want.”
“That’s okay; I think I’ll just watch.” There was another great shout as the chick went airborne, to be snapped up in midair this time by the monster. Brian saw some money changing hands and realized the guys were making bets.
He and the chief stayed and watched the proceedings for almost an hour.
Martinez snagged four bottles of San Miguel from a passing waitress who had her hands full, then pressed some pesos down her front when she started to object. She shrugged, grinned, and disappeared into the crowd. There was a burst of noise when one of the chicks managed to avoid being eaten, fluttering over the backs of three snapping crocs and into the hands of a sympathetic sailor at the other end of the enclosure. The sailor carried the chick triumphantly out a back door and let it go into the alley, to the mixed jeers and cheers of his buddies.
The Edge of Honor Page 41